


Quinquennial

by iamanidhwal



Series: 'Tis The Season [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bisexual Crowley (Good Omens), Booty Calls, Break Up, Christmas, Christmas Music, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Crying, Divorce, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, Fire, First Christmas, Gay Aziraphale (Good Omens), Heavy Angst, Human AU, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Ineffably Divorced, M/M, Not Beta Read, One Night Stands, Original Character(s), Physical Relationship, Post-Divorce, Regret, Smoking, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-18 13:20:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21711400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamanidhwal/pseuds/iamanidhwal
Summary: Quinquennial (adj.): lasting for, or relating to, a period of five years.--Crowley has received letters from his estranged husband -- on the fifth of December, on the dot, every year for the last five years.He never replies. After the divorce, he didn't really see the need to.(Day 5 of the "31 Days of Ineffables" Challenge -- Fire)
Series: 'Tis The Season [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1560976
Comments: 39
Kudos: 69





	1. No. 1

**Author's Note:**

> who the fuck said I can't wiggle in a bit of angst during Christmastime? ;) 
> 
> hate me all you want but I like making scenarios where people S U F F E R
> 
> Also, Ineffably Divorced is an AU-in-the-making made by yours truly ;') I really do hope I can write on this AU more, it feels super fun and enjoyable to create heart-wrenching things :^)))))

* * *

It came on the fifth of December.

On the day, it had been six months after the divorce papers had been finalized, four months since Crowley had been diving headfirst into bottles of alcohol, and a full three weeks since he's moved into a bachelor pad in London.

A _bachelor_ pad. The word refused to escape his mouth even when he tried to say it out loud, and even when he tried thinking about it, his mind turned to static white noise instead. At some point in time, Anthony J. Crowley's life would have fit the bachelor style to a T -- going out every weekend with friends, drinking and partying 'til dawn, bringing home random people from the bar as the night's lay only to shoo them away as soon as dawn broke over the horizon. It had been a major characteristic of most of his years in his 20s, and it helped solidify Crowley's image of being a laid-back playboy slithering into the upper echelons of London society.

But that wasn't him, hadn't been. for a long time. At the cusp of his 29th birthday, he had met Zira, and everything had changed. He mellowed down, the once boiling pot now barely a simmer, but still full and rich. Crowley had never understood it when his friends would gripe about finding The One until he met his other half as well.

The three years that followed their serendipitous meeting at the New Year's Ball at the Ritz were some of the best of his life. And when he popped the question one Fall evening in the Trocadero in Paris, with a gorgeous ring that twinkled from the lights of the Eiffel Tower, Zira's whispered answer of affirmative were like music to his ears. A whirlwind wedding preparation followed, and although there was strain between them when trying to wrangle their families to stay decent with each other until the ceremony and celebrations were finally done, they finally stepped out as wedded husbands in the summer of the following year.

That had only been two years ago, but to Crowley, it felt like an entire lifetime had passed since. When his mind was less hazy from drinking and had a rare moment of sobriety, the memories flooded in, but he never really fully reminisced, always removing himself from the scene as best as he could. Looking back at the pictures of them together made his heart and stomach clench uncomfortably. Everything had really seemed fine until it was not; he doubted even Zira himself saw it coming -- he _himself_ didn't, and he was more self-aware than the other man -- and only realized that they were heading straight-on for the divorce when both of them found that they couldn't readily say _I love you_ to each other after a massive fight.

Zira had left their place for a week. It turned into two. It transitioned into a month. The next time Crowley saw him, Zira was being accompanied by a tall man in a sharp Italian suit and dark hair who looked like a cross between a mafia don and a Greek god. They took every trace of his husband, leaving only an envelope written up by his family lawyers, asking for a divorce.

The proceeding was fast; or rather, to Crowley, it was. He spent most of those days either blackout drunk or sleeping, because any waking moment felt like a second too long with the pain of having his heart literally ripped out of his chest. His friends were there for him, of course, but all of them could tell that this divorce changed him. 

After all that was said and done, and the papers were finalized, Crowley took his coat and left the court without so much as another word to Zira and his new beau. The glint of a different, heavily studded ring on his now ex-husband's ring was enough for the man to completely shut down anyway.

He had heard very little of and from him after that; Crowley heard from the grapevine that Zira had moved to Italy in preparation for the wedding with his new fiancé. The corner space on the street where his antique bookshop once stood now lay bare, with shops who tried renting it never really lasting for more than a month. Crowley kept to his nine-to-five job on most days, but once the day was over, he couldn't help but pass through that street, meandering from the main path to his new, smaller home though it was, just to imagine him seeing Zira fluttering about with a pile of books in his hands.

Crowley was overcome by a cough, the onset of which was only days old. His name was written in loopy handwriting that he recognized immediately as Zira's, but he hesitated to open it. What on earth could he be thinking, mailing him something like this? The reason for their divorce on the papers was 'irreconcilable differences'. Crowley was pretty sure 'irreconcilable' meant 'not writing to'. 

"At least I can make myself feel better by giving myself an actual reason to drink," he grumbled, settling into his lone, ornate chair behind a dark-wood desk. Ripping open the letter and tapping out the folded pages, Crowley was enveloped with the familiar smell of ink and a specific, light aftershave. 

He smoothed edges of the paper as much as he could, then started to read.

> **_S_** _ometimes reality does not have the ears to listen to what the heart murmurs._
> 
> _But in this very moment in time, my dear, I do not know what my heart wants. I am fairly certain you did not want to read a letter from me, after many months of radio silence and complete isolation and destitution, but please, Crowley, hear me out._
> 
> _I do not intend to explain what I did... what my reasons are for leaving. I do not have the heart to tell you. When I saw you in the first meeting for the divorce proceedings and saw me with Raphael, I thought you had killed somebody. You looked quite murderous enough for that, I assure you. But as the weeks and meetings went by, even the presiding judge could identify your alcoholic reek even before you entered the room._
> 
> _Only then did I realize that you were, perhaps subconsciously, trying to kill yourself._
> 
> _I am writing to you in the hope that you haven't. I don't want to encroach on your privacy (more than I already have, as I am well aware, writing to you like this) by trying to ask around our mutual friends in London about your whereabouts and well-being. I imagine they would be very cross with me now as to what I have done to you... and to us. As they should be._
> 
> _But that's enough about the past. I'm writing to you now in my new home in Italy, where I reside with Raphael and his family in the city of Verona. Quite romantic, actually. I know you don't like those sappy, romantic tragedies that Shakespeare wrote, but perhaps you remember this as where the ill-fated romance of Romeo and Juliet took place. Tragic, really, what happened to them both, and even if they were fictional, I have a feeling someone somewhere on this Earth is experiencing the very same pain and heartbreak._
> 
> _Crowley... I don't know if you would even like to hear that I am doing fine. You probably despise me, and you have every right to, in all honesty. But know that deep within my heart I hold nothing but gratitude as I look back to the past._
> 
> _I hope this letter finds you in better health than when I last saw you. If you would be so kind, I have attached my address for you to write a reply to, if you so wish to. I am in no way imploring you to, but know that hearing from you would appease me knowing that I have not burned a bridge too badly. For it was never my intention to hold a lit torch._
> 
> _I hope you have a happy Christmas._
> 
> _~~Yours~~ Regards, _
> 
> _Zira Fell_

Hearing that Zira was doing okay without him, living his best life in Italy, was nothing but two arrows hitting its mark, in the hollow clave in his chest where his heart was supposed to be. The final nail on the coffin was seeing the address, the crossed-out word, the maiden name. 

Crowley didn't remember much after that. All he knew was that he didn't want to write him back.

"Suffer in my silence," he grumbled to himself, balling up the letter and the envelope and throwing it into the hearth directly in front of him. He watched the fire crackle and reduce the papers and carefully-written words into ash, before his hand blindly swiped at the desk, looking for the familiar neck of a bottle he was wont to finish.


	2. No. 2

The second year after the divorce, and Crowley was in the middle of a major seasonal slump.

Losing his job at the firm he'd been working on had been a big blow to his stability, which had already been petering out at best. If it hadn't been for his stint lifestyle after the divorce, he'd be deeply in the red. 

There was no need for him to skip meals, no need for him to slog in the office after normal hours, no need for powering through sick days and cold days. The only times Crowley allowed himself to rest was during national holidays or family emergencies, and with the scarcity of the latter and the flexibility of the former, those times really didn't amount to much.

The winter holidays saw Crowley alone once again, in the bachelor pad he has since been accustomed to. Mornings were cold, the kitchens were silent, the desks were bare of anything that wasn't work-related. The TV set and radio collected dust from the lack of use, and the carpet at that point had darkened in a linear streak right in the middle, where Crowley had worn a path into the cloth just by walking routinely from the front door to anywhere else in the flat.

It all seemed quite depressing, to say the very least.

Crowley had gone to the shops to do a quick grocery run before the families took over and sappy little couples hogged the self-checking machines. He toed off his boots and put the bags on the table, then crouched to the floor to get the mail that had been slipped through the door when he was out. 

"Bills, more bills, cards, coupons..." he grumbled, licking his thumb as he filtered which envelopes went straight to the bin and which he had to go over with his budget. He checked to see if there were any callbacks and letters from any of the firms that he had sent his resumes to unsolicited, but so far that had been a big old bust. 

One of the envelopes, however, looked important. Its make was of a higher quality than the others, thicker than the usual material envelopes were made of. It was light, too, but there was no mistaking the loopy handwriting that spelled out his name.

Crowley threw the envelope onto the desk like it physically burned him, and hissed at it involuntarily. He didn't want to open it, didn't want the memories flooding back. Zira's presence (or lack thereof) had weighed down on him heavily for the better half of the year, and he had just started to plant his two hands on the ground to push himself back up again. Now here he was again, his ex-husband sneaking in to squeeze himself into his life once more, the life he willingly left to be with someone else.

He could just toss it into the fire right now, he thought. Very much like he did with the first one. Crowley didn't want to read the words, didn't want to know how he was. Didn't want to know how he's changed, or how he's stayed the same. Didn't want to know if the Italian weather was giving him a rosy blush and a nice tan. Didn't want to know if a full year without seeing or hearing Crowley did him any good overall.

His fists clenched at his sides as his internal voices warred with each other. Finally, one won over the other, and Crowley went to the kitchen to retrieve a half-empty bottle of sangria he had saved from the night before. He poured himself a glass of it, gulping it down in one go, then poured another one. "I'm too sober for this," he said as an excuse to the empty room, as though psyching himself up for the letter was going to work and null his senses.

Finally, when he could delay his curiosity no longer, he reached down to open the envelope. Less aggressive than the last time, but still haphazardly, so much that a corner of the letter was ripped in the process. 

It was still readable, though.

> **_O_** _ne year has passed since I've written to you, Crowley._
> 
> _And I have noticed, of course, the lack of a reply on your part as well. I know that I have told you that I do not in any way implore you to write up a response, but for the two months following my letter, I have risen and asked day after day if there was any mail addressed specifically to me. After the eighth week of no answer, it finally dawned on me that perhaps your quill was highly likely to have never been picked up, and that your inkwell has probably run dry from the lack of use._
> 
> _(Look at me, being pathetically optimistic over nothing...)_
> 
> _As I have said before, I do not wish to encroach on your privacy, as well as use our common networks to check on your well-being. I trust in you, Crowley, much as I have trusted you all those years ago, that you will do right by you as you have done right by me ever since we've met. I took it as a positive sign that you've at least received the letter, as it never came back to me with a 'return to sender' stamped right across it. Reading it is a different possibility altogether, but here I am yet again, hanging on to that hope that perhaps you've received it, and read my words. Hopefully, my sentiments reach you and are translated from the written word into reality with no problems._
> 
> _I'm not sure whether you would like to know, but I will write about my year in Italy. In the last few months, I have started to really, finally settle into the new place. Unprecedented, really, as I thought moving into what could possibly no less be a mansion complete with servants and the like would be as easy as pie. Yet I have found myself time and time again looking out the window, into the sun beating down on a lovely vineyard just across the hill. Can you believe I actually miss the clouds and the gloom and the fog of London? The rain and the humidity and the rough edges of the city? It's amazingly laughable, if I do say so myself._
> 
> _The wedding has been called off--  
>   
> _

And here, Crowley nearly stumbled as he leaned forward, heart racing and thumping madly against his chest. His eyes scanned the paper, trying to pick up where he left off in a hurry.

> _The wedding has been called off, mostly because of family matters. Raphael has been carted off to head a new family business initiative in expanding their company's market in Southeast Asia, but I am sure you don't want to hear about the details. So here I am stuck in Italy, with little friends and littler to do, a sitting duck stuck in a warm pond. Verona is such a small city compared to other places, and every day I feel like the world just passes me by, and the only thing I can do is look on as the sun rises and sets._
> 
> _I do hope you're faring better than me. I know we didn't really leave on the best footings -- who am I kidding, we barely left on the same footing at all -- but know that I wish you all the best after everything that's happened between us. I do regard you highly, Crowley, and I respect you like no other. I wish you all the best._
> 
> _Again, just on the off-chance that you'd like to reply, my address is here for you to send a letter to._
> 
> _Happy Christmas._
> 
> _Regards,_
> 
> _Zira Fell_

Crowley sat for what seemed like hours on hours on end, just holding and rereading the letter in his hands. There was a sense of loss and longing from his words that he couldn't quite place; or rather, he _could,_ quite clearly -- but he knew that he was in no place to categorize it. To them both, they were nothing but an expensive mistake that took long, arduous hours to undo. At least, to Crowley this is what he looked like to Zira as they both signed the papers regarding their subsequent responsibilities and settlements.

His glass was kept filled as his body acted on autopilot, drowning out the words and thoughts that swirled around his head. At some point, he had fallen asleep on his desk, and by the time he had awaken, the letter had been ripped to tiny little shreds, in a neat little pile on his desk. 

He scooped them into his hands and fed them into the fire before navigating his way to the bathroom, a wicked hangover and the after-effects of a night spent crying threatening to split his head wide open.


	3. No. 3

On the third year of the divorce, Anathema had all but invited herself over to Crowley's for the holidays.

He was thankful, really; Anathema had been one of his closest confidants during his darker moments that seemed to stretch into days and weeks. But having her speak through the screen from wherever she was in the United States was wholly different from having her scream into his ear about the lack of Christmas decorations in his flat, or having her shoulder past him to the kitchen as she tried to save a pot of soup from boiling over. It was chaos around him, but he wouldn't have had it any other way.

"Of course I'd fly over," Anathema said over their homecooked dinner of macaroni and cheese with bacon. It was heavy to the stomach but warm, and Crowley liked how she cooked it, so he all but shoveled spoonfuls of it into his mouth as she talked. "Tomorrow's your grand opening. I'm gonna be there holding the ribbon!"

"The ribbon's tied to the sides of the door, Anathema," he reminded her, rolling his eyes. "No one needs to hold it."

"What did I say?" she fired back, cackling as she waved her cheese-covered spoon around.

Crowley didn't mind her making a mess, because, for the first time in months, things seemed to finally turn up for the better. Tired of waiting for answers from big companies that never came, Crowley had turned to picking up his old habit of tending to plants at Anathema's suggestion. ( _"You have all this free time, why not make use of it doing something? Doesn't need to pay a lot, as long as it makes you happy." "You sound like you're vomiting up a copy of 'Chicken Soup for the Soul'."_ ) After some careful thinking and number-crunching, Crowley had finally decided to venture into the market as a business owner and open a flower shop. 

It pained him, however, to know that the only place he could afford was the one shop that he never wanted to step foot in ever again. Filled with negative reviews from the bad experiences of other businesses that have used up the space and failed to gain momentum, the renting price for the former space of Zira's bookshop had plummetted. And although it was an unbelievable price to a buyout, especially with the calculated foot traffic and the advantageous corner block position, one would think that it would instantly be eaten up in the market. But word of mouth got around fast, spreading like wildfire until the abandoned space stayed hollow and empty.

Anathema and Beelz had both pitched some money as well, acting as silent business partners and investors to jumpstart Crowley's efforts with a sizable capital. Primarily because a chunk of Crowley's savings had been taken just from the deposit alone. Plus, due to the constant business changes -- from a bakery to a patisserie to a cafe to a co-working space, to name a few -- the establishment had undergone complete renovations and constant changes that might have left it worse off than before. They had set to work into reinforcing the walls with shelves that won't give, better counter space plus access to the back storage, which had been fitted with a thermostat to control the environmental conditions in for the plants he'd be keeping in the back.

All in all, it took months to plan out, but Crowley came out crawling like a champ. He was pained to see the changes, of course, especially now since it was going to be by his own hand, but he couldn't really hold back his excitement at a new venture. It was like a new lease on life.

"Drinks?" he offered, standing up to get a few bottles from the mini-fridge in the kitchen designated solely for alcohol. "I've got wine, champagne, rosé, beer..."

"Crowley, I thought we talked about having you take it easy on the drinking," Anathema chided, snooping around in the living room for anything to tease him on or blackmail him with -- a stray piece of lingerie, embarrassing company photos in holiday parties, anything, really. "Did you go to the meeting that I told you about?"

"I'm not an alcoholic," he snapped back, scoffing as he pulled out the rosé bottle. "I have it under control, and I drink within limits."

"What are those limits?"

"If I want to throw up, I stop."

"Great threshold," she said snidely, then picked up a cream envelope that Crowley had tried to hide behind the TV console. "What do we have here...?"

Crowley faced her, almost in slow motion. "Put that dow-"

"Why is Zira writing to you?" She looked up at him, face completely blank from shock. Her eyes were as round as plates from behind her glasses. In all accounts, she was the image of innocence; the only thing that tipped off her real feelings was the hand that held up the envelope in question, as it was shaking, Crowley could only guess, with suppressed anger.

"It's not what it looks like."

"Then tell me what this is doing here."

"He sends them," Crowley replied testily. "He sends a letter once every year, but I never reply."

Anathema clicked her tongue in annoyance. "Do you even read it?"

"Sometimes."

"Do you know where he is now?"

"...Italy. Staying with his fiancé's family, last I heard from him."

"Bastard's even keeping you up to date with his life even now," she spat, hands on her hips. "As if every letter isn't rubbing salt on a gaping wound!"

She moved forward, and Crowley stopped her in her tracks. "Anathema, wait --"

"You should burn it," she huffed, looking up at him. Her eyes were dangerously dark. "You don't need this, you don't need him controlling your life again."

"He's not -- he's never --"

"Oh, please, Crowley, we nearly lost you when he left!" Anathema shouted, waving the envelope around. "You were listless, and lifeless, like a broken shell of a man!  You took two years to get up on your knees, and to think he's been rubbing his existence in your face all this time? No wonder you had a hard time recovering!"

"I had a hard time recovering because I  _ needed  _ that time," Crowley answered tetchily, grabbing the envelope from her hands before she could protest. "It has my name on it. I get to say what I do with it, and I decide to  _ read  _ it."

"But  _ why?"  _ Anathema asked, palms up as if looking for an answer. "Why hurt yourself unnecessarily like this? Crowley, you deserve so much better --"

"Maybe I don't!" He cut her off suddenly, voice explosive in the small quarters of the room. "Alright? Maybe I  _ don't _ think that I deserve better. Maybe all this time I'm thinking I deserve this, I deserve wallowing in self-pity. I deserve being down for the count, because otherwise --" his breathing was increasingly becoming labored, and his voice broke as he continued. "-- Otherwise, why would this have happened to me?"

Crowley finished, panting as a wave of emotion overwhelmed him physically, enough for his knees to wobble and for him to collapse onto the couch. Anathema was silent but eventually joined him. Sitting cross-legged on the couch, she faced him and ruffled his hair, shushing him until his breath evened out.

“Read it out loud,” she mumbled.

“What?”

“I want to know what’s in it.” She tilted her head. “Sometimes you’d drunk-call me, you know. Two weeks before Christmas, for the past two years. I thought it was just you drunk rambling about how much you miss Zira because he always loved the holidays and you’d always go somewhere for vacation. But now I’m thinking it’s because of his letters. So open it, please. And read it to me.”

Crowley tried to reply, but Anathema just sighed loudly. “You don’t have to suffer alone, Crowley. If it were up to me, you don’t have to suffer at all. But if you decide on this, then the least I could do, as your friend, is to stand beside you. Alright?”

He nodded dumbly, gratitude welling up in his chest. After a few moments of no movement, he ripped open the envelope and pulled out the letter, smoothing it out before reading it.

> **_ R _ ** _ emember when we’d have walks in St. James Park? _
> 
> _ I apologize, this is an unconventional way to start a letter, but I thought of you today. I had gone out for a walk to get some fresh air, as the golden leaves in the barely-hanging-on trees started to fall in the wind that grows colder every day. I arrived in a small park, where the leaves were still growing strong, and there was a small duck pond, bare now that the birds have flown further South for the oncoming winter.  _
> 
> _ I thought of how we’d just spend the whole day on a bench somewhere, talking and debating and doing nothing in particular. Clouds and people and time would pass us by until the clouds would glow orange and pink and purple as the sun would set. It was always one of my favorite moments, and I’m grateful I had plenty of those. _ __
> 
> _ Raphael and I don’t share the same interests. He likes buildings and monuments and high-rise places. He’s based in Bangkok in the meantime, and he’s sending me pictures of skyscrapers and busy streets, crowded malls and confusing metro lines. He loves the energy of it, while looking at the same pictures through the phone physically drain me. I know it’s not fair to compare us to my fiancé; I just wanted you to know that I remembered you today. _
> 
> _ But to tell you the truth, I remember you every day. My letters have gone unanswered for two years now, but again I find comfort in the thought that it wasn’t returned to me. If you’d have a new address, haven’t read it, I would know. But I do hope you’re doing fine, my dear. I trust that you have the strength to move on, to look to the future and hold nothing back.  _
> 
> _ Perhaps you’ve even found someone new? You were always so incredibly perceptive yet dense to the emotions of the people around you, and I mean that in a teasing way. But there may be something that’s holding you back. Crowley, please don’t be too hard on yourself. You deserve the world. At one point, I thought I could give it to you, but now I’m thinking that you deserve so, so much better than anything I could offer on my meager plate. _
> 
> _ I hope the year has been kind to you, Crowley. And I hope the next will be even kinder. _
> 
> _ Happy Christmas. _
> 
> _ Regards, _
> 
> _ Zira Fell _

__ Anathema was silent as Crowley folded the letter back into four, then slipped it into the envelope. He was overcome with emotion, but it looked like Anathema was the exact opposite – her face and eyes were blank, devoid of any thought.

“So,” Crowley prompted, gesturing vaguely into the air. “That was… uh…”

“Idiots,” Anathema whispered. “The both of you.”

“What?”

She just sighed and shook her head, before taking the letter from Crowley's hands. "Do you intend on answering?"

"No." It came out immediately.

"Do you want to see him again?"

"...No."

" _ Crowley,  _ for the love of God, don't lie to me."

"How can I do that when I know I want something that's not good for me?" he asked, looking down at his lap. "I know this is the equivalent of picking at a scab so the wound doesn't heal right. But I can't help it."

Anathema sighed, then took the letter to the fire. "You can." She paused by the hearth, holding it up over the flames. "You need a bit of closure, Crowley. That doesn't mean you can't ever see him again, but it does mean that you would be able to look at him in the eye and not feel the same burning pain when you do. All you need is time, and fortunately, you have that. And you have the shop to keep you busy. I'm advising you as a friend; this isn't healthy if you keep beating yourself down like this."

Crowley knew she was right. He knew that she had good intentions. And right now, he just felt drained. So he nodded dumbly, and the next thing he heard was the familiar crinkling and scent of paper burning. Anathema excused herself to get the bottle of rosé from the kitchen, but not before ruffling his hair gently on the way. 

He leaned back against the couch, mind drifting through memories of casual dates in St. James Park. The sun shone clearly through the clouds, reflecting off of the water in the pond. A giggle here, a subtle hand touch there. 

Crowley closed his eyes and pressed his palms up to his eyelids until stars burst in his vision.  _ How did I let it all slip away? _


	4. No. 4

When the fourth letter arrived on one December evening, it was like a slap to the face.

Crowley's business had flourished (he refused to use the word 'bloomed' because he didn't want to make a pun out of the business he took a huge gamble on), and he was finally settling into a happier routine. By morning, he'd wake up, grab some coffee and breakfast on the way to the shop, and spend the next two hours before opening trimming and watering and changing the daily bundles.  _ The Garden of Eden  _ had become quite popular after some clever social media marketing by some young upstart Youtubers nearby that called themselves "The Them", and the shop had been selling out for every holiday since.

Personally, however, Crowley didn't really feel so hot. After the last letter from Zira, he had become dazed and starry-eyed for things, imagining things that have already passed. Anathema had gone on a few Tinder dates during the holidays when she stayed in London, and most of them she made into double dates. 

She had good intentions, and he knew this, but Crowley really couldn't care less about the guy in front of him who he was supposed to be getting to know better. All it took was a flashy smile, an uninteresting comment, a scoff at the waiter, to cross them off of his mental list. To his horror, even Beelz was trying to set him up with their rather large network around London, and with being forced to go on dates and balancing the business, the months blew past like a monsoon.

But all of a sudden, there was someone who had literally crossed into his life. Lucian was a tall man with blond hair and piercing gray eyes. Intelligent and direct, he had gone into  _ The Garden of Eden  _ intending to buy a bouquet of tulips for his sister at the hospital only to come out with a scheduled date for later that night.

That was Crowley's first date in years. That was Crowley's first  _ fuck  _ in years.

Drunk and sloppy and dominating and rough, they had stumbled across the hallway into Lucian's lavish apartment and stayed up all night going at it like depraved rabbits in different positions and different surfaces. Crowley scrambled at clothes, desks, walls, skin, hair, eyes scrunched tight because why open them when it was going to be dark all around him anyway? 

He had snuck out before daybreak, Lucian quietly snoring at his huge bed. Crowley didn't know why he did so, but he wrote his number on a notepad and left it by the bedside table.  _ Just in case. _

They had been meeting for roughly once a month after that.

Lucian would set a day and time. Crowley would come over, get it over with, and leave. And that was routine for the both of them. Crowley had felt a strangely familiar tugging in his heartstrings the moment Lucian had stepped through the door and literally stopped time inside his flower shop, but those feelings slowly shriveled away. It was sex, and nothing more. They barely even talked to each other apart from calling out each other's names, swearing, the dirty talk in between the sheets. 

_ Depravity drives any rational being into madness.  _

Crowley thought he read that somewhere (exactly where, though, he doesn't know). It started making sense now, but even he couldn't hide the disappointment that all he was subjecting himself to now was the satisfaction of carnal pleasures, because, clearly, that was the only thing going for him these days. 

Because of the stress and the overall numbness, he had gone drinking more -- in the sense of amount and occurrence. And that was what he was doing now, swigging wine from the bottle while holding his phone to his ear with the other free hand.

" _ Sorry; all lines are currently busy. Please check your mobile network and try again, _ " the automated female voice over the phone droned, and Crowley all but threw his phone across the room in annoyance. 

"Bugger," he scoffed, gulping more wine down his gullet as he leaned against the counter. 

Lucian had stood him up on two different occasions now, and it was becoming more and more obvious to him that their non-verbal arrangement was over. Crowley had known that it wouldn't have lasted, wouldn't have worked, but he still felt a stinging pain when it came to being dropped like a used towel and to be thrown into the trash like he wasn't worth anything. 

"Could have dropped a sign," he grumbled, hiccupping a little. "Or a message. Or at least a fucking 'no' would be appreciated." He clicked his tongue and put the bottle down when he realized it was empty. "Even Zira had the gall to notify me about wanting a divorce."

_ Zira.  _ His sluggish mind, hazy from alcohol, started whirring again.

"Oh, that's right -- mail," Crowley yelped and stumbled over himself as he checked the pile of enveloped he had scooped up and dropped onto his table earlier that day. 

He had no hope, if he was being honest; it had been three years of Zira sending letters with no reply, and the likelihood of an envelope being sent back from London to Verona quickly dwindled year after year. Had it been Crowley on the other end, he'd have given up at this point, taking the hint.

But he couldn't help but notice the feeling of anticipation literally making his fingertips tingle, and when the familiar envelope and name and script appeared after a shuffling of envelopes, Crowley nearly ripped it apart in his hurry to open and read it. 

> **_ R _ ** _ ight or wrong? _
> 
> _ This is what I usually ask myself every time I sit on my desk, pondering on what to say. To tell you the truth, Crowley, I have sat and pondered many, many times thinking about what exactly I should put on paper for you this year. And then I realized that I have been doing that more and more throughout the months, many draft letters later binned. If you weren't answering with my past letters, then what hope can I hold out that you'd answer a random one that would arrive in, say, the middle of July for no apparent reason? _
> 
> _ I'm sorry, my dear. Just a quick thought to start off the letter; again, a weird way to start it, but I'm owning it at this point. How are you? How have you been? Word on the grapevine says that you've your own business now. I'm so incredibly happy for you, and I would have sent you something -- like a basket of treats for congratulations -- but I stopped myself early enough, because I didn't know if you'd be comfortable receiving something so big from me. My yearly holiday letters are already a gamble enough, and I'd rather not push my luck when it comes to things like these. _
> 
> _ It's been a bit more troubling in the house, I'm afraid. With the engagement a long-standing promise now, tensions are running high, but Raphael is doing well in establishing his family's network in Southeast Asia so they really can't pull him out just yet. I've heard from him that he's secured a major real estate deal, somewhere around Sukhumvit Road in Bangkok. He looked pleased when he told me, so I'm guessing it was a very important deal he closed.  _
> 
> _ But with that being said, I have had to stay in the house for nearly 4 years now. I've read all the books in the library for at least five times each at this point, and I've taken the liberty of adding some choice classics that I had bought online. Some classics like Dostoyevsky and Kerouac never hurt anybody, but I try to hide the Beatnik books, just in case the more traditional members of the family come snooping around. _
> 
> _ With the air in the house reeking and draining like miasma, I've taken it upon myself as well to go out and walk around. At this point I know Verona like the back of my hand; every little back-alley, every small shop squirreled away in between apartment buildings. I spend my time either in the park or in a cafe I have found greatly boosts my creativity. It's quite splendid, really, just like the cafes we usually visited. _
> 
> _...Do you ever stop to think about why I keep writing? Why I even bother sending letter after letter? Why I even think about the things that have passed between us, memories of us together? Perhaps you hate me for constantly bringing it up, but Crowley, honestly: every time I think of you, there is a warmth that fills my chest. I harbor no hard feelings nor any ill will to you, whatsoever. But I do sometimes wonder why I keep doing the things I do.  _
> 
> _ Call me a blithering idiot, but I think it's in my nature to keep hoping for the best and see how life plays out. Don't you think so? _
> 
> _ Happy Christmas, Crowley. I hope you surround yourself with love and success to follow you for the coming year. _
> 
> _ Best regards, _
> 
> _ Zira _

Crowley felt something swell in his chest. He recognized what it was, but refused to give a name to it, for fear that it would consume him. It was the feeling that he felt fluttering in his stomach when he had leaned it to meet Zira halfway for their first kiss, felt brimming him to the top of his head as they walked down the aisle together. 

Crowley didn't have the right to those feelings anymore. And although his tell-tale heart was pounding ferociously in his chest, his mind and body knew that it was in the wrong.

And so, even though the letter in his hands practically sang with yearning, he ripped it into pieces and let it burn. He tried to tamp down his feeling of disappointment, and only marginally succeeded.

"This is for the best," he mumbled to himself, staring into the mirror. His gaunt face looked back at him in the reflection, eyes sunken from fatigue and cheekbones more prominent than he was used to. "This is for the best."

He had heard somewhere that forced positivity could work. Crowley thought the same psychology could be used with coping mechanisms as well. 

_ Repeat until true. Repeat until true. Repeat until true. _


	5. No. 5

Five years after the divorce, and Crowley found himself busy enough to actively not think about his situation for more than a day.

Which was a feat in and of itself, though he never really prided himself in it. Sure, work was rough, and with an ever-expanding business and constant networking procedures that needed to be established, Crowley usually spent every waking moment thinking about a plethora of things queued up on his to-do list, the end never in sight.

He still kept the bad habit of drinking every week, and since Beelz and the others couldn't really join him on the fly, he'd often go to pubs alone after the shop closed, then drunkenly saunter home when the clock struck twelve. _Cinderella Crowley_ , Anathema had nicknamed him, but the undercurrent of worry and chastising was palpable even through the weekly Skype calls they would have. Before she could say anything about his alcohol intake, however, Crowley had made up an excuse of a kitchen emergency to get out of the call. It must have been so obvious, but it stopped the flow of the conversation from proceeding further down that path, and by the time he'd come back Anathema was already prepared with another subject altogether.

And at some point, he had picked up another annoying habit -- smoking. At the onset of fall, when the cold wind started biting and the temperature steadily going into the single digits, he had sought after the high from nicotine. He wasn't really an addict, insomuch as he doesn't really feel the urge to smoke unless highly stressed, but he hated it nonetheless. Crowley had caved and bought an ashtray for his flat, and would usually go out onto the small balcony for five minutes.

There, with a cigarette between his fingers and the nicotine working its magic, he felt at peace. There was no buzzing in his head, which he was only aware of only when it was absent. No thoughts to distract him, no annoying errands to complete. It was just him, the fresh air, the lights in other buildings. 

Crowley wondered sometimes what those little yellow rectangles in the side of buildings hold. What kind of families are inside? Disillusioned men, disenchanted women, quiet children, and lonely hearts all toiling through the daily necessities of life as the holidays breeze past. Everyone wanting something entirely different but doing the exact same thing.

Once, he saw a happy couple in one of the windows. A man with a cup of coffee, overlooking the same landscape Crowley had, but with a more serene look, only emphasized by the big, strong arms around the man's waist holding him close.

He made sure not to look at that specific window since.

"Mail?" 

Crowley extinguished his cigarette and hopped into his flat, opening the door for the mailman and smiling. "Hey, Rogers, happy holidays."

"You too, Mr. Crowley," the mailman said, grinning with his frivolous mustache turning upwards at the sides. Rogers held up a bundle of envelopes for him. "Getting letters quite regularly, hm?"

"Yeah, from all over." His smile got tight for a second, but when he saw Anathema's name on one of the envelopes, his shoulders relaxed. "Some more wanted than others, but the sentiment is appreciated all the same."

"It's good news for us, well." Rogers shrugged, then hoisted his hefty bag onto his shoulders. "Have a good day."

"You too." Crowley waved him off and closed the door after him, already sorting through the pile. 

He never really noticed it before, but every time the fall season would officially start and settle in London, he had the tendency to withdraw into himself. The man drank more and visited his usual haunts, the local pub owner already filling a glass of whiskey as soon as he came in through the door. There was something gnawing, clawing at the insides of his stomach, and his shoulders tensed up more than usual. He had always excused it away as working more especially in preparation for the holidays, the decorating, et cetera, but he realized soon enough that, really, it was just a coping mechanism that he had developed five years prior, when the letters started arriving.

Zira's letter fell from the stack accidentally, and Crowley picked it up. It was the fifth letter he's received as it came every year without fail, but his hands and fingers still shook. It took him a moment to compose himself before he opened the envelope. It felt heavier than usual, and when he tipped the contents out, there was also another paper inside. 

Crowley frowned. This was something new. Usually, the envelope contained only one folded paper -- that was it. His heart was pounding now in his chest because of this novel thing. Ever since the divorce, he was wary of opening letters that he didn't ever expect. Was it some kind of summons? Financial reparation? What was it for?

Steeling himself from the inevitable, he sat down on the couch and set the second paper aside, favoring the letter that he had equally anticipated and dreaded for the better part of the year.

> **_Y_ ** _ou once said to me, during one of the meetings for the divorce, that love is like a hurricane._
> 
> _I never really got to ask you why, or how you came up with such a dreadful simile. A hurricane, really! With all of the news about those ridiculously huge storms across the pond, I would have favored a description that would liken love to something more mellow and pleasant and enjoyable._
> 
> _But this year, I've been thinking quite a lot about what you said, and perhaps I've cracked the code. Would you entertain me for a little while as I imagine you listening to me blabber and run my mouth like I always do?_
> 
> _This imagery of love as a hurricane gave me a mental image of ferocity, intensity, high velocity. A hurricane type of love was all-encompassing, overwhelming. Dark and stormy, brewing with energy. There are days when the lands are calm, as though in the eye of the storm, before everything gets swept up again in the whipping of the winds. Nothing survives its path -- nothing stays as they were before and after the cyclone passes through. And no matter what, it always leaves a path of chaos and destruction._
> 
> _As horrifying as that image must be, I have to acquiesce. Even at such a low point in our lives, my dear, you've always been so poetic and reflective. I've always ~~loved~~ admired that about you. _
> 
> _How have you been? It's been exactly five years now that I have written you, five letters in total that I have sent to your name and address, from Verona to London. I have not received a single letter. I suppose you're still hurting, and I'm here to tell you that whatever you're feeling right now is valid. And only on one sunny afternoon this past summer, when I had been resting in the gardens of the mansion, did I finally realize that perhaps the reason you never replied was because I had been unconsciously ripping apart the bandages you've tried to dress yourself with for the year._
> 
> _And so it is with a heavy heart that I'll have to say that this is going to be my last letter to you._
> 
> _I have so many things to say, so many things to tell. Why must I have no courage to say all of these words in person? I'm not sure. Maybe it's because I don't know how you'll react if I actually met you face to face after all that's happened. Maybe I'm expecting you to smile and to forgive like I didn't knowingly shatter our relationship into a million tiny pieces. Maybe I'm deluded and I call it 'blind optimism'._
> 
> _I don't know. And... I will never, ever know. Perhaps it is ineffable; Fate has spun us a short thread, and it is entirely up to the Heavens if we shall ever meet again._
> 
> _I am no person to tempt the universe. I do not want to push my luck, nor to push myself onto you. I had been so foolish and so naive, realizing several years too late that not getting a response was_ _still_ _a response._
> 
> _Promise me these, Crowley. Promise me that you'll open your heart. Promise me you'll open your eyes. Promise me that you'll keep shining like you always have._
> 
> _I wrote to you before that, once, I thought I could give you the world if you asked for it. But you deserve the whole universe -- with its countless stars and planets and galaxies. And in this ever-expanding space, there's a guaranteed place for you, and a guaranteed place for me. Wherever that may be -- either it's a two-hour flight away, or several lightyears from each other -- know that my feelings of gratitude toward you will never change._
> 
> _Happy Christmas. For all the years to come. Take care of yourself, Crowley._
> 
> _Best regards,_
> 
> _Zira_
> 
> _P.S. I have taken the liberty to send you something. I hope it holds together well in the mail._

He didn't realize that he had grown cold as he reached the end of the lengthy letter. Once his eyes scanned the post-script, Crowley opened the second piece of paper, and nearly gasped at what he found.

It was a perfectly pressed flower, its dainty purple petals and thin stem immediately recognizable to him.

_Lily of the Nile. Agapanthus. From the Greek word 'agape', meaning the highest form of love._

"No," Crowley whispered, voice breaking as his hands shook. His vision swam as he processed the implication. 

This was Zira's last letter. The last time they'd have contact. Crowley thought his life as he knew it ended when the divorce papers were finalized. But right now, whatever feeling he had walking away from the courthouse as the issues were settled, it was amplified to five times. 

His breath came in sharp rasps as he stood up on wobbly legs. Frantic in his search, he blindly looked for a pen, a pencil, any writing tool that he could find. 

Zira's address was _right there,_ mocking him as it was spelled out on neat little letters. Four years and Crowley had done _nothing,_ had not reciprocated, had not shown his true feelings. Four years, and Crowley had felt like he failed once more. Four years, and Crowley could clearly see in his mind's eye Zira walking through the threshold of their home again, for the very last time. 

He never really liked the view of someone's back. He never really liked the view of someone walking away. It sent him shivers down his spine, because Crowley was being abandoned _yet again._ And it was _still his fault._

There was a crackle and the scent of something burning. Crowley's head whipped around and he shrieked as he saw the letter and the envelope had caught fire, having fallen in his hurry to grab something to write with. 

"No, no, no!" He screamed, desperately trying to save the letter, but it was too late. Crowley had managed only to get the paper with the pressed flower and save it from being too badly burned. 

He sank to his knees, watching the fire that he had fed the letters to for four years greedily engulf the one letter he wanted to write back with. Clutching the pressed agapanthus to his chest, one of its petals singed black by the flames that tickled the edge, Crowley broke down, hunched over on the floor. 

In garbled sobs and heaving hiccups, he cried out for Zira, for a love that seemed too good to be true, for a life that had slipped through his fingers like fine sand. He begged with every fiber of his being for time to stop and rewind, back to five years from now, to the time where he and Zira were still happy. Before everything had gone to shit, before life had thrown a hurricane into their domestic bliss.

But as he cried, the clock on the mantelpiece steadily ticked on, hands moving him farther and farther away from the happiness and stability he was yearning for.

**Author's Note:**

> Just writing this prequel to the AU gave me /tons/ of ideas, and I think you can see that from the foreshadowing of things from vague details.
> 
> Also, try looking at the letters in bold from Zira's letters and see what that spells out ;) 
> 
> Leave kudos and comments if y'all want me to expand this AU uvu


End file.
